A Proper Wife

“Dress casually,” Sharon had said, and he had, in pressed, faded jeans, loafers, and a pale yellow cashmere sweater under a leather bomber jacket.

Promptly at eight, he’d rung the bell to her apartment.

Sharon was dressed even more casually. She flung open the door wearing a smile, a pair of high heels, and a tiny red bib apron. The rest of her clothes were conspicuous by their absence.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a big, sexy grin. “Guess what’s on the menu?”

Ryan knew better than to answer, but that didn’t faze Sharon. She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a passionate kiss.

Gently, he extricated himself from her tentacles, said he was starved, and managed to consume some half-raw thing that quivered when she put it on his plate.

After dinner, she plopped down in his lap, guided his hand to the apron ties, and asked him to guess what was for dessert.

Ryan blanched, set her carefully on her feet, and handed her a little box.

“Happy belated birthday,” he said.

The box contained a pair of sapphire and diamond earrings he’d picked up the day before in a quick stop at Cartier. It was, he’d thought, a gift that would put a polite spin on a goodbye visit.

Wrong.

His heart and his stomach sank together as he saw the light go on in Sharon’s eyes. Square little jewelry boxes were not a smart thing to give a woman who was hearing wedding bells. Why hadn’t he realized that?

Because of the damned Franklin girl, that was why. It was her fault. He’d started to buy Sharon an amethyst necklace but the color of the stones had reminded him of the color of Devon Franklin’s eyes and he’d turned away from the necklace counter in confusion.

“Oh, Ryan,” Sharon whispered, and before he could say a word, she popped open the box.

“Earrings,” she said. “How—how thoughtful.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “Sharon, we have to talk.”

“I agree,” she said, snapping the box closed. “Emily and Mark got engaged last week.”

Emily and Mark? Ryan had no idea who they were, but instinct told him this wasn’t the time to ask.

“That’s nice,” he said cautiously, “but—”

“I think it’s time we did, too.”

There it was. The taunting cape had been flung aside and the matador’s espada glinted in the arena sun.

Ryan tried an impersonal smile.

“You’re a lovely woman, Sharon. But when we first met, we agreed—”

“That was then,” Sharon said, her voice suddenly cold.

Ryan’s eyes had narrowed. “Then, now, next week...It won’t change. And it’s time we dealt with it.”

The evening had not ended in the civilized manner he’d hoped. Sharon had called him a name. Several names, in fact, and then she’d pointed dramatically at the door.

“Get out,” she’d shrieked.

And he had.

Ryan shuddered as he recalled the nasty scene. Why did women insist on changing the rules in the middle of the game? he thought as he stepped into the shower. That was the one thing a man could count on. You sure as hell couldn’t count on the female of the species for consistency.

Just look at Devon Franklin. One minute she could make a man think she was the sexiest thing alive. The next she was a leading contender for Queen of the Vestal Virgins. And she was either a knowing part of her mother’s scheme, or she was an innocent pawn.